No More Play?
by Chargrilled39
Summary: Why did the laundry have such terrible ventilation? Was he even going to live when the bastard decided when to rip the door open? These were some of the thoughts racing through a hyperventilating Nero's mind while he remained perfectly still in the hot laundry. He had never seen Dante's trigger before, and he never wanted to see it again after this ordeal, it was terrifying!


**A/N: Yes I knoooooow I haven't been updating my other DMC story "Superiority Complex" and I'm sorry for that (actually I'm kinda tapping away as we speak ._.) I've hit a bit of a writers block lately and have been super busy with studies/labs ect for my veterinary biology course D: **

**That goes without mentioning my boyfriend is visiting this Friday and staying for two weeks... *does retarded happy Char dance* xD**

**Anyway, I wrote this story as a spur of the moment thing for a friend and to slowly get myself back into writing (you know who you are! ;D), I hope you all enjoy this short snippet - though don't expect it to evolve into a multi-chapter story; unless you all bug the hell out me to do it... then I may have to reconsider lmao.**

**(._.) (|:) (.-.)(:|) (._.) - they see me rollin' they hatin'**

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Nero reflexively deflected the thrown speeding glass bottle with his twisted demonic arm, luminescent blue talons clicking loudly against the green stained glass and cheap beer splashing the front of half breed's navy blue tank. It was no lie that the demon hunting agency of Devil May Cry was home to a pair of half devils; both extremely competent and lethal in their line of work when it came down to the gritty business of dispatching the legions of hell. But when it came to subduing each other when their demonic blood reared its ugly head...

"Christ Dante, calm down!" A feral roar and Nero grappled the steel railing of the stairs behind him with blue claws, shifting his weight backwards and vaulting down to the hardwood floor below, stumbling while he tried to right himself on the mess of pizza boxes and old newspapers. An old bar stool smashed on the metal railing where he was moments ago, splinters of wood raining down onto the half demon and catching in his hair, in his clothes. Letting out a string of curses, Nero struggled to reign in his panic while he tried to think of how to handle the now very-much-demon Dante; he couldn't lead the guy outside! He could kill people! Hoary-blue eyes flickered frantically around the front of the messy office, locking onto the doorway that led to the laundry and without so much as a second thought; he dove towards it faster than humanly possible, slamming the door shut and locking himself in.

Of all the monumental screw ups Nero had made in his short nineteen years, they all paled in comparison to the two terrible mistakes he had made within the past ten minutes. The first being his unusually sporadic choice to lock himself in the stifling hot laundry, his agile footwork leading him to the dim room before he thought his plan through – and now he was trapped. The dryer and washing machine clattering loudly while they worked away on their contents and sweat had begun to bead on Nero's flawless face, matting his snowy white hair uncomfortably to his forehead and high cheekbones; with a quiet noise of disapproval, he swept his human hand back through the colourless locks, effectively slicking the damp strands out of his eyes. The half demon barely noticed he had started panting through the chokingly heavy air and darted his tongue out over his dry lips, swallowing thickly and his icy blue eyes straying to the only barricade between himself and his personal predator – a freaking door.

Boy, he was screwed.

A dark growl on the opposite side of the wooden barrier caused the teen to freeze, muscles locking up in terror and anxiety. Nero pressed himself further into the shadowed corner of the laundry with wide eyes and an uncanny fear gnawing at his stomach – there was nothing to worry about, the old man was still himself, right? Claws scratched leisurely on the thick oak door, the sound like nails on a chalkboard and causing the half demon trapped in the hot room to flinch involuntarily; his scaly, plated demon arm twitching in anticipation and the luminescent blue flesh on his taloned hand pulsing vividly in alarm. Nero knew full well the other was more than capable of kicking the door down if he so pleased, but he knew he wouldn't for the time being – demons did enjoy the thrill of the hunt, after all.

"_Neeeeeroooo_" it cooed, voice thick with the man's unnatural change; his devil trigger "_Play?_" it hissed and he swore he could picture the fanged grin on the bastard's smug face. That was the second mistake he had made, causing Dante to snap – one of the twin sons of the legendary demon, the Dark Knight Sparda, and owner of a demon slaying business – while the poor guy was wrestling with his demonic heritage wreaking havoc on his mind.

"Get hold of yourself old man..." he snapped through the thick air, shifting uncomfortably at the feeling of his shirt clinging to him like a second skin from both the beer and his sweat, his pale blue eyes never leaving the door. Nero listened intently over the clattering machines, watching the demon's shadow pace outside the laundry with ebony claws clacking on the lacquered wood. A sharp hit on the door surprised the teenager enough for him to jump with wide eyes, the oak groaning in protest and shuddering in the aftermath. A second hit and cracks spider-webbed out from the impact, splinters flying into the stifling laundry from the failing barricade. Nero's blood seemed to clot in his veins like ice and he held his breath, eyes locked onto a small crack in the wood that flooded light into the dim room.

A swirling gold eye stared back, malice and humour dancing in the liquid metal iris.

Several moments of silence passed and in his fear spiked to its peak when the door was ripped from its hinges and sent flying behind the triggered half demon; Dante standing before him with scaled lips curled back over glistening ivory fangs in a somewhat cruel grin. The red leather trench the older slayer was rarely seen without appeared to have fused to his skin in a mess of thick plated armour and leathery scales, the tail of his coat fanning out behind him like a set of intimidating gold-veined wings. Steeling himself, Nero stood shakily – pinned beneath the weight of the cool gaze directed to him – and flexed his vibrant blue talons, a white-hilted katana humming into existence and settling in the palm of his demonic hand. Dante watched quietly, burning gold eyes straying to his own black claws and back to the enchanted sword in Nero's vice grip.

"_No more play?_"

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**A/N: RnR gaiz :p**


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